


Sight.

by ghostfacekillmonger



Series: SIGHT. [1]
Category: Black Panther (2018)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-14
Updated: 2020-02-14
Packaged: 2021-02-27 23:53:29
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 5,794
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22724233
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ghostfacekillmonger/pseuds/ghostfacekillmonger
Summary: Erik has a strange, life changing encounter with his next door neighbor while grocery shopping.
Series: SIGHT. [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1634086
Kudos: 9





	1. I. SIGHT

The sun followed Erik everywhere he went Saturday morning like he had a target on his back. Erik could feel the nape of his neck burn as he counted out cash for the old man selling produce under the bridge. Mister Jim’s red pick-up truck had seen better days. The body was starting to rust in spots, but it’s Ole Miss license plates were always shining like new. Erik had restored a truck exactly like it and drove it today in to talk shop with the old man. And he liked to buy from Mister Jim because his watermelons were always sweeter than the ones at the grocery store. He also had yellow ones this time of year.

“Ooh wee, it’s sho’ nuff hot out here ain’t it?” Mister Jim pulled off the worn Rebels ballcap to wipe sweat from his balding head. After securing the dirty rag in the back pocket of his overalls, he finished loading Erik’s purchase: two watermelons, a bag of fresh corn, and a cantaloupe he added in as a courtesy. 

“Yeah, you right about that.” Erik agreed as sweat beaded at the tip of his nose. He managed to muster up a friendly smile before placing the bills in Mister Jim’s hand. Jim thanked him with a cheerful “hotty toddy”, as he always did, and Erik went about his way.

Erik hated summers in Mississippi. The thick humidity made it hard to breathe, the heat was damn near unbearable, and the mosquitoes were vicious. According to T’Challa, who was visiting with Erik for a spell, the weather in Wakanda wasn’t much different. Despite these things, Erik couldn’t see himself living anyplace else. He was rooted. _This_ was home. 

There’s no way he would give up the simplicity of living in a small rural town. He loved the kudzu that grew sneakily up telephone poles and the back roads caked with red clay dirt. He especially enjoyed the pleasure of knowing _almost_ everything about _almost_ everybody. Although living like royalty was appealing, he was proud of the castle he had built for himself right on the edge of town.

-;-;-

The Piggly Wiggly was Erik’s last stop before he could finally get back to his humble abode. Heat radiated from the black tar of the parking lot as Erik hopped out of his truck and made his way inside. A handwritten sign on the automatic doors informed customers that, unfortunately, their air conditioner was out. With that in mind, he decided that this grocery run would be a short one and he started to throw things in his basket as fast as he could remember them. A gallon of whole milk for Erik, almond milk for T’Challa. Leg and thigh quarters for supper today, white beans, mustard greens, turkey necks, a loaf of bread. And beer. T’Challa had drunk his last Natural Light.

_“Erik?”_

The aggressive spinning sounds of the large barrel fans stationed throughout the store made it hard to hear. He could of sworn someone was calling his name.

_“Erik.”_

The voice seemed disembodied until it grew closer, calling his name over and over again. Erik peered over his shoulder, startled by the appearance of his elderly neighbor, Lora.

“Sweet Erik. I always knew you were special.” Lora smiled gently, tufts of gray coils framing her wrinkled brown face. She wore a simple white outfit accented by her favorite purple sweater.

“Hey there Miss Lora.” Erik rubbed his arms, fighting the hairs and goosebumps that had risen. “What are you doing out here?” Lora had no handbasket or buggy. She didn’t seem to be shopping for anything.

“Oh, I’m just passing through.”

“You, uh, need some help? I can give you a ride home.”

Lora chuckled to herself and started to walk away. “I’m already headed that way.” She continued to speak with her back turned toward Erik. “Gotsta go home and rest. Yes Lord, home and rest.”

Erik raised his brow. “Well, I’m cooking later. I’ll bring you a plate, alright?”

By the time Erik called out, Lora was already bending the corner still muttering to herself. “Home and rest…home and rest.”

Lora lived alone in a house that was built before Erik was ever thought of. He knew her mental health had been declining in recent years, and he checked on her very often. On cooler mornings, they’d sit on her porch, drink sweet tea, and watch the cows as she told stories of times past. She was still pretty sharp for an aging woman, but he had never seen her like this before. Erik found their interaction peculiar, but he put it to the back of his mind and finished shopping. For some reason, all he could think about was going home and resting.

-;-;-

The road leading to Erik’s home was narrow and could barely hold two cars at the same time. By Saturday afternoon, the road was so crowded he could barely drive down it to reach his own residence. Vehicles were parked in various carports and ditches all leading to Lora’s small house. Had Erik not seen the gleaming black hearse, he would have thought they were having a party. People from across town stood in Lora’s yard, speaking quietly to one another. T’Challa was among them, soaking up information. He threw his hand up at Erik as he finally pulled into the driveway.

Erik was confused. Had something happened to Lora that fast?

T’Challa jogged over, catching Erik has his feet hit the pavement. Erik was overcome by a strange, heavy energy that was oddly familiar. Something wasn’t quite right. “What’s going on? What happened?”

T’Challa sighed and placed his hands in the pockets of his sweatpants. “Your neighbor, Miss Lora. She has transitioned…”

“How? When?”

“Her son found her about thirty minutes ago. But they think she might have been dead since this morning.”

“That’s not…” Erik glanced over at the adjacent yard as the funeral home attendants rolled a covered stretcher out of the house. Lora’s son followed with a tearful face, purple cardigan draped over his arms. “That’s not right.”

“What do you mean, N’Jadaka?” T’Challa furrowed his brows and leaned on the hot truck. He quickly recoiled and rubbed the red spot that had started to form on his arm. 

“I just saw her at the store,” Erik started, lowering his voice to a whisper. His eyes were still focused on the covered body being roughly loaded into the hearse. “I just fucking saw her, T’Challa. She even had on that damn sweater!”

“Are you sure?”

“I’m positive.”

Erik was visibly distressed, hands shaking as he started to gather grocery bags from the bed of the truck. T’Challa grabbed what he could and followed him into the house. 

“You know what this means, don’t you?”

Erik busied himself with putting food away, trying his best to avoid T’Challa’s question. He knew exactly what he was referring to, but those feelings, those senses, were gone. They had to be. He thought that if no one acknowledged them, they would cease to exist. T’Challa only smiled and clapped his cousin on the shoulders.

“Your gift, Erik. _It is back_.”


	2. II. SIGHT

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Erik comes to terms with his gift and some of the complications that may come along with it.

Erik slammed the cabinet, careful not to knock it off the hinges. There’s no way he was seeing ghosts, _not again_.

“That ain’t right. I thought…” He ran a tremoring hand through his dreadlocks. “I thought I was supposed to grow out of it?”

“It doesn’t work that way. These types of things don’t leave you.”

Erik saw his first spirit at the tender age of seven. It was Molly, a tiny white girl with dishwater-brown pigtails and a dirty face that would never play with him during recess. She had been struck by lightning during a bad storm one spring. Young Erik had an almost innate understanding of death - he understood what happened when fish went belly up and knew what it meant when buzzards circled roadkill with very little explanation. He also understood that Molly was gone and she wasn’t coming back. Until she did. The first time he saw her was on the school playground. This time, for whatever reason, she did want to play with him. It freaked the other kids out to see Erik pushing a seemingly empty swing and the seat itself holding enough weight to move. He would just tell them that Molly wanted to go higher, but he could only get her so far. After the class snitch went to tattle, teachers began to scold Erik for being intentionally spooky and frightening his classmates (and them as well). He didn’t think he had done anything was wrong until his father gave him a very long talk about the spiritual gifts that ran through his Wakandan and slave-descendant bloodline, and how very few people would understand what he could do. This deterred Erik from making a lot of friends, unsure of who was real or not. As he grew, he tried to pray away - to Jesus, to Bast, to any god that would listen - until he finally developed enough discernment to separate himself from it.

“I don’t want this, T’Challa. I can’t…what am I supposed to do with it?”

T’Challa peered through the kitchen window at the house next door. The hearse with Lora’s body had long pulled away, but people still gathered on the front porch to comfort one another. Erik popped the top on one of his beers and let the metal cap sing as it hit the tile floor. He took down nearly half of the bottle with one gulp.

“The gift will show you how to use it, N’Jadaka.”

“What the hell are you even talking about?” Erik said, confused by T’Challa’s vague statement. 

“You’ll see,” T’Challa chuckled. “Just trust me.”

Erik didn’t feel like cooking anymore. The realization and the impending responsibility of this “gift” had already exhausted him. He closed his eyes and exhaled, trying to piece it all together.

“So, you’re telling me the doorway to the afterlife is inside the fuckin’ Piggly Wiggly? That doesn’t make sense!”

T’Challa shrugged and grabbed a knife from the block on the counter. ”It will make sense when it makes sense.” He laid old newspaper on the kitchen island, preparing to cut the watermelons Erik had brought in. “But we should take them something at least. We’ll have to get more groceries and I’ll make them some hot dishes.”

“Casseroles?”

“Yes, casseroles. Or do you think they would like Wakandan jollof?” The blade slid through the melon with ease as T’Challa carved it in pieces. He marveled at a piece of the golden yellow fruit before popping a cube into his mouth.

“These country folks. Stick to casseroles.” Erik finished the last swig of his beer and rolled the glass bottle in his hands. He was even starting to feel different, almost enlightened like he did when he visited the ancestral plane. Except now, the worlds were inseparable. In Erik’s sight they had always been one and he would have to accept it whether he liked it or not. 

-;-;-

Lora’s funeral was held the following Wednesday in a tiny church buried deep on the land of a former plantation. Erik was uncomfortable with how fast they had handled her arrangements, but he figured there was no reason to prolong her services especially in the summer heat. The small church was packed, aside from the very back row where Erik and T’Challa sat. The sleeves of both of their shirts were rolled up to their elbows as sweat poured from their foreheads. The old, floppy fans didn’t help at all. 

“To be absent from the body is to be present with the Lawd. Amen?!” Erik felt like he was in a time warp once the preacher stood at the podium. He was in an ill-fitting three-piece suit, the same color as a rotten eggplant, and wore gold rings on eight of his nine fingers. There was no way one could tell if there was sweat dripping from his face or if it was the activator from his Jheri curl. He ended each of his statements with an ugly grin that showed a single gold tooth amongst his crooked discolored ones. 

T’Challa shivered as the man continued to talk. Although he couldn’t see the same things as Erik, he could feel a chill forming in the air near them. The energy in the sanctuary was shifting. Erik felt a presence settle beside him before a familiar voice hit his ear. 

_“That’s my nephew from Augusta. I’m not sure why they let his ignorant ass do my funeral.”_

Lora sat on his right, bouncing a small infant in her arms. She stared straight ahead, focused on her own body in the casket. 

_“And that makeup? Way too light. I told them not to let Johnson & Sons get my body. But at least they put me in my sweater.”_ She sighed and cooed at the baby. _“Don’t have children, Erik. They don’t listen.”_

Erik’s eyes darted around the room to make sure no one else could see or hear her. “I thought…” Erik whispered, stammering on his words. “I thought you were gone?”

“ _Oh, I am._ ” Lora shook her head as a heavy-busted woman start to wail and cry over the casket. Erik didn’t recognize her as someone who checked on Lora often. He didn’t even think he had seen a picture of her in the house. 

“Who’s she?”

_“My granddaughter. I always knew she’d be the one to cut-a-fool. Stay away from her at the repast, she might try to get fresh with you.”_

A few other family members tried to calm her down as the choir rose to sing their final selection. Lora rocked herself and the baby as the orgran began to play. Erik had never been a crying man, but he tears started to well in his eyes at the touch of Lora’s cold hand. It was as if he could feel the heaviness of her long life looming over him combined with pain and suffering that had shaped her. He understood that she was old and tired. That the morning of her death, her spirit had roamed the town in fear searching for something or someone familiar. He was the one. The only one that could hear her. The only one that could still feel her. He helped her find her way. Erik closed his eyes and let the few tears trickle down it’s cheeks.

_“It’s okay, baby. It gets easier.”_

“What am I supposed to do, Lora?...Lo-” Erik opened his eyes to see that she was gone. The intense emotions he was feeling finally overwhelmed him and Erik fell into T’Challa’s lap sobbing loudly, calling out for Lora. He knew he couldn’t turn away from the gift, not again, but he also wasn’t so sure if he could handle it.

The service didn’t last much longer after that. The church followed her pearly white casket out to the graveyard behind the church, where a green tent and old metal folding chairs had already been prepared for the graveside service. Although many of the women there had rubbed his back on told him sweet things, he still felt a tinge of embarrassment from crying as he did. The family knew how important he was to her and offered him a seat at the front with them. He declined and opted to stand to the side with T’Challa. The family, even her dramatic granddaughter, had calmed down significantly but sniffles and coughs staggered among them. 

As everyone settled in their seats, Lora’s preaching nephew stood before them again, tightly gripping a white dove in his hands, “…but they that wait upon the _LAWD_ shall renew their strength; they shall _mount_ up with wings as eagles; they shall _run_ , and not be weary; and they shall _walk_ , and not faint…” 

Erik could have sworn he heard more singing, but when he searched the crowd he couldn’t detect a moving mouth.

“And don’t you be sad chirren. Because just like this he’ah dove, your mother spirit will fly to be with da Lawd.”

The preacher moved from under the tent and chunked the dove in the air like a baseball. It didn’t fly. The bird immediately fell to the ground and landed with a hard thud. A chorus of ooh’s and uh-oh’s followed from the crowd.

T’Challa and Erik both cringed and covered their faces in second hand embarrassment. The crowd started to murmur and whisper before the funeral director finally took over and properly ended the burial. 

Lora’s grave sat between two headstones: one belonged to her husband Jeremiah, who has passed in the early 1990s from a heart attack. She talked a lot about him, about how much they loved each other. She liked Erik’s dimples because they reminded her of him. As the family scattered, Erik moved in the read the other grave marker. It was an infant that hadn’t lived to be more than two days old. He smiled as he thought again about her apparition in the church and the baby she held tenderly in her arms. They were all finally reunited. 

T’Challa cleared his throat, interrupting Erik’s train of thought. “I think it’s time to go.”

“Yeah,” Erik looked over the graves one last time. “Yeah, okay.”

Most of the family had already left, with a few lingering and talking in the gravel parking lot. Erik planned to join them at the house for food and drinks but his energy was spent for the day. He didn’t think he could stand to be around any more people - living or dead. T’Challa cranked up Chris Stapleton’s ‘Tennessee Whiskey’ on the radio and sang along as they headed back into town. Erik made sure to roll down the windows and take in the smells of summer - corn still growing in the fields, honeysuckle blooms, and ever so often the scent of a charcoal grill. 

“Shit!” Erik slammed on the brakes at the sight of an unmoving figure in the road. 

“What?!” T’Challa questioned, panicking. “Are you okay? What is it?”

“Do you not see that?” In broad daylight, the figure began to approach the truck. It was a young boy, no older than ten, dressed in a bloody shirt.

_“You can see me, mister?”_

“No…” T’Challa looked forward to the empty road, then back at Erik. “I don’t.”

“Oh, fuck…”

The boy approached the driver’s side of Erik’s truck. Erik didn’t look down at. Thinking that if he didn’t make eye contact, maybe he would leave. Erik had fooled himself. He wasn’t ready yet. Not so soon.

_“Can you help me?”_

The boy begged. Erik’s foot inched back towards the accelerator pedal and he took off, speeding down the county road and back to his home. But he could still hear the boy’s voice loud and clear, echoing in the distance.

_“Can you help me, mister? Please…please!”_


	3. III. SIGHT

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Erik is still coming to terms with his gifts and the places it can lead him.

Erik couldn’t remember the last time he had been this tired. He wasn’t sure if it was the resurgence of his dreaded gift or just the events of the past few days that had worn him down, but he done dealing with real people and ghosts for a while. It seemed like he could fall asleep anytime and anywhere.

This evening he was stretched across his couch in front of the evening news. After two hours of heavy snoring, Erik’s nap was interrupted by a harsh rapping at his front door and melodic ring of a windchime. Erik didn’t own any windchimes.

“I can’t do shit by myself. Damn!” Erik groaned and shuffled to his front door, only to be countered by the last person he wanted to see - Lora’s middle son, Joseph. One of Lora’s wooden wind chimes swung back and forth in his hands.

Joseph and Erik smiled dryly at each other through the screen door. Although Lora adored her boys, she had created a special bond with Erik that made Joseph slightly jealous. He was always suspicious of Erik, scared that he was some sort of scammer that was after his mother’s money, but Lora always recognized Erik for what he was - a broken soul in need of gentle mending.

The setting sun was hidden by darkening clouds. He could smell the rain that was soon to come.

“Evening Erik…”

“What’s up, Joe?”

“You coming out here or we gon’ talk through glass the whole time?”

Reluctantly, Erik unlatched the screen door and stepped out onto the porch. He had planned to continue his intimidation tactics until he noticed Joseph has also brought over Lora’s rocking chair.

“What can I do for you?”

Lightning struck in the distance. It was still miles away from where they were, but Erik made a note to cover his truck before the night was over. Joseph handed the windchime over to Erik and stuffed his hands in the front pockets of his khakis.

“We been trying to figure out what to do with Momma’s stuff. As much as I hated it, she treated you like one of her own and I…I think she would want you to have some pieces of her. To help keep her spirit around.”

“I don’t think I need any help doing that…” Erik smirked and looked down at the chair that was rocking on its own. If Joseph and others only understood what he could see. “But she always said I needed something of this porch…thanks for thinking about me.”

“I’ll get on now. I need to hit the road before that storm comes in.”

“Yeah,” Erik shuddered at the idea of Joseph’s ghost toiling around his property if something were to happen. “Drive safe.”

Erik watched Joseph descend the stairs cross the yard back to Lora’s house. They were likely setting up an estate sale to get rid of her things. Lora had told him many times that her children weren’t sentimental about the small town they were raised in. It was too rural. Too country. Too black. They didn’t have to live like that anymore. Erik feared that they would sell it, or worse, let it rot into the ground.

By the time he made it back inside, T’Challa had found his way to a spot on the couch, with a snack in his hand no less. He was entranced in the local news broadcast but looked up briefly to recognize Erik’s presence.

“Who was that?”

Erik laid the wind chime on the coffee table and took a seat next to T’Challa. He stuffed his hand in the bag of chips T’Challa had and grabbed a handful. “Punk ass Joseph. Brought me this chime and Lora’s rocking chair.”

“That was nice of him.”

“I saw his mama more than he did. It’s the least he could fucking do.”

The new report transitioned to a breaking story and T’Challa grabbed the remote to turn up the volume. The smiling face of a young boy, no older than 10, covered the screen. Erik recognized him immediately.

_**“There have been new developments in the case of Allen Bates, the missing 9-year-old boy from South Pittsburgh, Tennessee. Allen was picked up from school on Monday by his aunt and uncle, and hasn’t been seen since. Previous reports have said to look for a 2003 Ford Taurus with Tennessee license plates, but we now have reason to believe they have changed vehicles once they crossed state lines. There is no evidence to suggest that Allen is not alive and traveling with them. If you have seen Allen Bates or have any information on where he may be please call at the anonymous tip line at…”** _

Erik stared at the TV with a slack-jaw. “He’s dead…”

“How do you know that?” T’Challa asked with his face screwed in confusion.

“That’s who I saw in the street when we left the funeral. When I stopped the car. That boy is dead.”

“What…what do we do? Do we call the line?”

“And tell them what, T? That I saw a ghost?”

Both of them toiled for a moment. The news moved on to more feel-good stories about puppies up for adoption and the impending storm that was scheduled to hit the town by midnight. Erik scratched his beard and exhaled sharply.

“He was trying to get me to help him and I ran…I fucking ran away from him.”

“If he really needs you, he’ll be back.”

The storm came quicker than Erik expected. He welcomed the loud rounds of thunder that lulled him in and out of sleep, but he couldn’t help but think of the boy - Allen. He was scared. Covered in blood. Screaming for Erik’s help. There’s no telling what his aunt and uncle had done to him.

Although Erik could see spirits, this was the first time he actually felt haunted. Something was looming over him and watching, although he couldn’t see it just yet. He tossed and turned for hours until a sharp pain struck in his chest and pinned him to the bed. He gasped for breath.

_“Can you help me now? Please…”_

It was Allen again. He couldn’t see him but his voice was clear. The pain subsided for the time being but Erik still struggled to catch his breath.

_“I can show you where I am. I just want to go back to my mommy.”_

Erik popped up out of his bed, drenched in sweat, with the boy's voice scrambling in his mind.

“T’Challa!” The rain was still pouring hard as ever. Erik bumped around his room looking for his boots and a suitable jacket. There still wasn’t a peep from his cousin’s room down the hall. “Goddamnit. T’Challa! Put some clothes on, we need to go!” Still nothing. Fully dressed, Erik stomped down the hallway to T’Challa’s room. The light was on, so it was clear he had heard something. Erik opened the door to see T’Challa sitting on the side of the bed rubbing sleep from his eyes. He shivered as a cold breeze swept through the room.

“It’s very late, N’Jadaka. What is it?”

“The boy. He’s here…” Erik said. T’Challa’s eyebrows perked. He was awake now. “We gotta go find him.”


	4. IV. SIGHT

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Erik comes to terms with his gift and some of the complications that may come along with it.

It took no time for the soothing thunderstorm that served as Erik’s lullaby to turn into a violent display of God’s power. The thunder was loud and the lightning made the midnight sky look like day. No one else was on the road. And no one else needed to be.

“Where are we going?” T’Challa tried to work the sleep out of his voice while Erik’s truck bumped down the rural roads. His arms tightened around the pile of items Erik had loaded him down with. Even in his anxious state, Erik had managed to find every lantern and flashlight he owned, along with an old shovel, a tarp, and some extra ponchos. T’Challa wasn’t quite sure what they were prepared to see or do when they reached their destination.

“I…I don’t know right now.” Erik was letting Allen lead him. Although he knew the area like the back of his hand and could navigate it well in the dark, he still had no idea where he was being led. Every few seconds Erik would get a whisper of direction in his ear. 

Left. 

Left.

Right. 

Straight.

_“Stop!”_

Erik carefully pressed down on the breaks, as to not hydroplane on the wet road. They were on the edge of town, right on the county line, and surrounded by woods. There were no homes, shops, or restaurants, and very little traffic. Unfortunately for them, it seemed to be the perfect dumping place for a small body. Erik’s hands tremored around the steering wheel as he contemplated leaving the vehicle.

“We need…” He started, voice quivering. “We need some light and…the shovel.”

_“It’s cold out here, mister…”_

“Bring the tarp, too.”

T’Challa only nodded and grabbed a lantern for each of them, along with the tarp, and the shovel he prayed to Bast he wouldn’t need to use. Erik managed to steady his breathing before killing the engine. He yanked his hood over his banded locs and T’Challa followed suit. Soon enough they were both being beaten by the heavy rain, sinking deeper into the mud with every step. 

A form manifested in the distance, shirt still bloody and tattered, and motioned Erik further into the woods.

“He said this way.” 

Allen didn’t talk anymore. He walked solemnly in front of Erik, leading both him and T’Challa to his final resting place. Time did not compute in those moments. It could have been minutes, hours, or days and Erik wouldn’t have known the difference. Every so often, as they trekked deeper into the muddy woods, Allen would turn to face Erik with a stone look that chilled him to his core. For a brief moment, Erik considered running again. But it was clear this ‘gift’ was becoming stronger, which meant Allen would be back with a vengeance looking for the help he requested.

T’Challa nearly ran into the back of Erik when he stopped abruptly. He started to ask what he saw or what was said, but he could see it for himself. He wished he hadn’t.

“Shit…” Erik kneeled and lowered his lantern over a pile of dirt and leaves that had started to wash away with the rain. Enough brush had run off to reveal a small brown hand. Dirty, battered, and lonely. It was a shallow grave, not dignified enough for an animal, let alone a human child. 

_“I just want to go home.”_

“I know, buddy…” Erik sighed and tried to wipe his face. His own tears were indistinguishable from the raindrops that didn’t care to cease. “I’m so sorry. What, um…what do you want us to do?” 

Allen was small for his age. Short, skinny, and awkward. If he and Erik had been classmates, he would have picked on him for being a runt. Despite these things, Allen was gentle. He closed the space between himself and the man kneeling over his lifeless body and raised a hand to his face. For that moment only, Erik’s tears dried. The same sharp chest pain that had woken Erik out of his sleep returned, but even more intense. It knocked the wind from him and forced him to his knees fully. He couldn’t find his voice to speak or scream.

Frightened, T’Challa ran to his side. The chill amongst the humid summer air let him know that Allen’s spirit was still present, and likely the cause of Erik’s discomfort. T’Challa spoke in a hushed tone and whispered ancient prayers in Xhosa over Allen’s body. This calmed Allen and Erik both.

Erik finally caught his breath and struggled to his feet. He couldn’t stand to look at Allen’s corpse anymore and turned away. It wasn’t the first dead body he had seen, hell he had even been responsible for a few in his day, but this was something he wasn’t sure he could handle. “Cover him. He’s cold.” Erik stepped away and steadied himself on a nearby tree. 

T’Challa did as he was asked and rolled the tarp over Allen. He said a final prayer over the boy’s spirit before turning to check on his cousin. 

“Are you okay, N’Jadaka?… What do we do now?”

Erik fought the ill feeling in his stomach and looked for Allen’s apparition. He was gone.

Erik secured his hood and turned to walk away. “I’ll call the tipline…”

-;-;-

Erik tried to shake off the images of Allen’s body, but they seemed to be burned into the back of his brain. Neither he nor T’Challa felt like closing their eyes that night, afraid of what would haunt them in the dark. The rain remained steady and dared the sun to rise as morning crept in. T’Challa put on a pot of coffee and rolled out dough for fresh biscuits. In the meantime, Erik showered and tried his best to clear his mind. He wondered if this is what his life would consist of if he decided to fully embrace his gift. Ghosts and dead bodies. Murder mysteries and dysfunctional family funerals. Existence has always been complicated, but this? This was another level. Another dimension. Erik never imagined it would carry this type of responsibility, but it wasn’t something he could hide from anymore.

By the time Erik finished bathing, T’Challa had managed to put together a simple breakfast - coffee, biscuits, and jam imported from Wakanda. T’Challa was still bit jittery and already on his second mug when Erik found him in the living room. He was in his spot on the couch again, plastered in front of the early morning news. 

A field reporter was stationed in front of the now crowded road he and T’Challa had left not too long ago. Squad cars were parked in the background with their lights flashing, along with a coroner’s van and news truck. The reporter waited for a moment as the camera focused. 

“We’re live at the scene where the body of 9-year-old Allen Bates was found early this morning, thanks to a call on the anonymous tip line. Police are still searching for his aunt and uncle who have not been seen since Monday of this week. We’ll be on scene reporting as the story unfolds. If you have any information that may help us find Allen’s killers…”

Erik ran a hand through his damp hair and bit down on his lip. There wasn’t a sense of relief like he thought there would be. Although Allen got the help he asked for, there were still two guilty people on the run.

“Am I supposed to feel complete after this?” Erik asked. “I thought I would be satisfied knowing that they found him, but for some reason, I feel more empty than before. I don’t understand.”

T’Challa savored his last sip of coffee and sighed.

“Gifts like yours are not easy. My father always said these things take time to understand. Time and experience…”

The two cousins sat back simultaneously and closed their eyes. Erik could have sworn he felt a hand grip his right shoulder, although T’Challa was sitting to his left. As much as he tried, he couldn’t open his eyes to look around or move his body at all for that matter. The grip on his shoulder tightened and was followed by a familiar chuckle. It was a laugh he hadn’t heard in decades. It was the same laugh that entertained the jokes from taffy wrappers. The same full belly chuckle he would try to muffle when a growing Erik would trip over his own feet.

_“Oh, my son…this is just the beginning.”_


End file.
